Never Fit In
by LadyLokiOfBakerStreet
Summary: Charlotte Christophson lives a sort of normal life, until she meets Sherlock Holmes. Can the two of them, two freaks who never fit in), solve a case that might be more ominous than it seems at first? Rated T for language and violence (much later on)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I didnʻt think London would be like this. I donʻt know how the hell I imagined it, but I thought it would look a bit older, like something out of a Charles Dickens novel. Dreary, and lots of bricks. Not that I really minded all the modern stuff and skyscrapers. Modern stuff is just part of my life. Yet today, I feel overwhelmed. Like I am going to collapse under this insane pile of noise and people and bustle. As I step from the terminal into the moist London air, I am suddenly surrounded by people. So many people. Toddlers and old women, businessmen and homeless dudes. They are all there. And all that rain. Damn, the rain is pouring down, pounding. I quickly pull my raincoat from my backpack, draping it over my head to attempt to stay partially dry. And with all these people, so much stuff to know. So many lives, so many personality, so many quirks. I wanted to know about every single one of them. Yet considering my umbrella is broken and crooked, I decide instead to push my way through the crowds and flag down a taxi.

Shaking the rain off my umbrella, I slip into the backseat, relieved to be somewhere dry at last.

"Whereʻd you like to go, maʻam?" the cabbie, a middle-aged man with gray speckling his hair, asks.

Pausing, I pull out a hastily printed map from my suitcase. I donʻt carry a phone. Why would I, when everything I need to know about anybody I can tell right off? "219A Baker Street, apparently." The cabbie nods curtly, as the car rumbles down the street. For a minute or two, I sit in silence, watching as the raindrops slide slowly down the window. Its hypnotizing, but not particularly interesting. I study the cabbie closely. His cap is slightly askew, and he hasnʻt corrected it despite the view from the mirror. Indicates a carefree, perhpas rebellious personality. Or at least thatʻs what he wants to project. Eyes are dull, though, emotionless. He hates his job, longs for adventure. Heʻs in need of a shave, so must be forgettful, as he also has no watch.

"Youʻre a pretty young lady. Whatʻs your name?" the cabbie asks, briefly turning around.

I reach forward to hand him a twenty-pound note, then snap, "Not proper for a married man to flirt with a woman half his age!" Before he can respond, I hop out of the cab, noticing at exactly the right moment a signpost for Baker Street. The rainʻs slowed down to a drizzle, so I timed my exit perfectly. Thatʻs the thing with having a wicking talent for figuring people out- you canʻt stop analyzing them, and sometimes, you canʻt keep quiet either.

Looking down at the now soggy map, I see that 219A should be beside 223. Doesnʻt really make sense, to be perfectly honest, but maybe addresses are just really effed up here in the UK. And there it is. Chrystal chose a nice place, really. This is really more how I imagined London to look. Itʻs a bit cozy, actually. I stand on the doorstep of the apartment of my very best friend, Chrystal Lou Alfiton, ready to knock. I pick up the heavy doorknocker, that somehow resides perfectly centered. For a second, thereʻs silence.

Then: "Whoʻs at the door, Mrs. Hudson?" What the hell? Itʻs a manʻs voice. And my best friendʻs name is not Hudson, not unless sheʻs been withholding important information. If she is, I will honestly kill her. Footsteps. The door creaks open. I pull back my fist, ready to punch her in the face, only to see a woman whose at least thirty years older than my best friend.

I laugh nervously. "Iʻm sorry. I think I have the wrong house. Google Maps was wrong, I guess," I try to smile awkwardly.

The woman, who looks to be about sixty, just smiles. "Oh, itʻs quite alright. I suppose youʻre looking for Chrystal Alfiton? Sheʻs right next door, but youʻre welcome to come inside for a second, it seems to have started raining again." I turn around, to see that sheʻs right. The rain is pounding down upon the pavement.

Just then, a man, tall, holding a violin on his shoulder and dressed in a suit, comes to the door. "Whereʻs my tea?" he demands. He could be considered attractive, with his intense gaze and raven curls. If that was your type.

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head in exasperation. "In the kitchen. Let me just make some for this poor girl." The man turns quickly to me, apparently just noticing my existence. Before he can say anything, I back away from the door.

"Perhaps tommorow. My friend is probably wondering where the hell I am. Thanks, though." I walk away, still wondering who exactly they were, the friendly woman and the less-than-friendly attractive man. If it wasnʻt for the shock, I couldʻve found out a whole lot more. Maybe Chrystal will know, though.

She opens the door at the first knock, as usual. Immediately, she rushes forward to envelop me in a huge hug. After a moment, she finally lets go, letting me speak. "I got lost. Met your neighbors, though. Strange bunch. Though it takes one to know one."

She giggles. "Oh, Sherlock Holmes. Heʻs actually quite brilliant, though rather odd. Not even rather odd, more like extremely odd. Knew all sorts of insane stuff about me. What I liked to do, my occupation, my history. Kind of handsome, in my opinion." Of course. She finds most men attractive, practically every guy between 18 and 36, to be exact. We have little alike, except that she understands me, even if Iʻm a bit odd. The way I can tell everything about a personʻs character in a minute, tops. How I dress, with all the lace and corsets and dress pants and combat boots. How I stare at people for too long, kind of forget where I am. As she hugs me again, babbling about how me much she missed me, I know its because weʻre both different. Not different in the same way, but definitely both different. Her with her sing-song voice and love of frills and hard rock music and just completely contradictory attitude.

Ushering me inside, Chrystal pours a cup of tea, still talking. "...and then he- sugar?" she says abruptly, remembering what sheʻs doing. I shake my head, as she heaps in thre huge spoonfuls into her own glass. Sugar- I only like it in chocolate. Dark chocolate.

"Earth to Charlotte. Are you like too enamored by my gorgeous neighbor to be listening to me?" Chrystal jokes, waving a manicured hand in front of my face.

I turn red. "No, you jerk. Heʻs not even THAT attractive."

"Oh, but he is, that attractive." She responds with a smirk.

Suddenly, I hear a footstep, not too loud, but definitely a footstep. "Um, what was that?"

Chrystal shrugs. "Probably my pomeranian." Thereʻs silence after that. I mustʻve imagined it. I follow her lead, sipping my tea and giving her updates on life back in Philadelphia.

"So, you got a boyfriend?" Chrystal asks slyly.

"Heavens, no! You?"

Now its her turn to turn red. "Well, thereʻs this guy. Well, heʻs actually a fictional character, so I guess it doesnʻt co-"

Suddenly, everything goes black and Iʻm being dragged out the door, like Iʻm being kidnapped.

I do the only logical thing: scream.


	2. Chapter 2

I scream. I kick. I try to wriggle free. I scream again. I do what anyone would do if they were kidnapped, regardless of how strong and independent and fabulous they usually are. But it doesnʻt work. My kidnapper is strong, definitely, even with just one arm around me. I hear the door slam with a bang, rain pelting me. We must be on the street. I kick out again, making contact this time with a shoe, judging by the quiet British expletive. Itʻs definitely a manʻs voice, and definitely familiar. A door is opened once more, and I feel as if Iʻm dragged upstairs. A neighbor kidnapping me? Great. My one thought is, that, so far, Iʻm not loving the UK. Stepping backward, I stumble into a chair, rather ungracefully. Smooth hands abruptly pull the sck from my head. As my eyes adjust to the bright light, I quickly survey the room. Thereʻs a huge bookcase, with colorful covers and words that are too small to read from here. Too bad. The room is rather messy, with a skull on the mantlepiece. The wallpaper is the second most striking aspect of the place, a complex pattern, with a bright yellow happy face painted haphazardly on one wall behind me. Chrystal sits beside me, glaring venomonously at a familiar tall man with chiseled cheekbones and a trenchcoat. Of course. Just of course. Chrystalʻs slightly bizarre neighbor. Sherlock Holmes. But why the hell did he kidnap us?

"Sherlock! You canʻt just kidnap our neighbors!" An older woman, Mrs. Hudson, rushes into the room, sighing. She turns to us. "I am so sorry. Why donʻt you explain yourself, Sherlock."

He shrugs, like kidnapping us is no big deal. "Theyʻre in danger. There was no time. A carbon monoxide is going to explode in the flat next door in... four minutes fifty-two seconds."

Chrystal gasps, her dark eyes widening. "Youʻre kidding. If this a joke, Iʻm honestly going to kill you. Youʻre like joking. Wait, no, you arenʻt. Thatʻs poisonous... right?"

Sherlock Holmes nods. "Only in enclosed spaces. Or semi-enclosed. Such as a house. You would have died."

Chrystal faints. I canʻt blame her, even if I donʻt. Iʻm not really the fainting type. Iʻm not any less shocked than her, though. Who would want to kill her? Or me? This was supposed to be a vacation, not some scene from a movie. I pull myself together as fast as I can, getting to my feet.

I try to keep my hands from shaking, finally crossing my arms. "Let me get this straight: you kidnap us because my best friendʻs flat has a carbon monoxide bomb in it?" I canʻt keep a note of sarcasm from my voice. Not that Iʻm trying...

Sherlock Holmes nods, smiling. I fight the urge to punch him, instead studying him to find if he is telling the truth. I can find out easily enough. Shoes are oxfords, polished. He therefore has a job where he communicates with people and needs to look presentable. Heʻs dressed in a trenchoat with the collar turned up, indoors, indicating a dramatic, showy persona. Eyes are intense, focused. Heʻs driven, not distracted easily. Not a people person. Judging from what Chrystal said, a sociopath. Eccentric, due to the contents of the flat. Used to have someone else living here, seeing as thereʻs two chairs, facing each other. Lives alone now, probably socially awkward. Sociopaths always are. Finally, exhibiting no nervous twitching, not blinking too often, nor too little. No dishonesty here.

Itʻs only when Sherlock says, "Impressive," that I realize I said all that aloud. "I can do better. Name and hometown I know from the luggage tag on your purse. You arenʻt carrying a phone, so you must not need it for your career, so a domestic job. Youʻve done whatever job you need to- currently, a secretary, judging by the ink spot on your hands. Single, but had a boyfriend, that left you with that necklace. Youʻre too sentimental to remove it. Hobbies are jazz dance, as indicated by your poise, and reading, seeing as the first thing you looked at was the bookcase. Your parents... you donʻt get along with them. You havenʻt talked to them in years. Am I right, Mrs. Christophson?"

It takes me a moment to nod, dumbfounded. "How the hell did you know about my parents?"

"Your reaction, of course." Iʻve been alive for twenty-eight years, and no one, no one has ever been able to do that. Except me. I try my best to think of a comeback. "Oh, so youʻre a showof, too." I say, rather snidely. "That explains why you pulled off a fancy kidnappping and scared the hell out of us! Instead of explaining to us like a normal person would!" Maybe its that, or maybe its the irrational annoyance of finding out Iʻm not unique in deducing people, but I lunge forward and punch Sherlock Holmes in the face. He stumbles backward, his hand rushing to his face to hold back the blood. I sigh. "Just so you know, donʻt expect me to apologize later. Not my style. But, um, thanks, though, I mean, the bomb thing. For like saving our lives. That was good. Like, I donʻt want to die. And Iʻm shutting up now. Would you care to explain, though, why someone was trying to kill my best friend?"

Sherlock sighs in exasperation, holding a hankerchief to his bleeding lip. "Someone planted it after you arrived... the door was unlocked... must have been unusually quiet. The flat is never completely empty, they were hoping to lure myself and Mrs. Hudson out by having you be found dead a house away. Then, they would plant the bomb here... and kill me. Itʻs brilliant."

"And sick." I add. "Okay, so how did you know about the bomb?"

"Iʻm not just a detective. Iʻm a scientist. I know this stuff, and trust me when I say you wonʻt understand."

"Probably not. I failed high school physics." I admit.

"Your talent is in analyzing people. How did you learn?" he asks, genuinely curious.

I laugh. Heʻs just like me; he should know. "Idiot. I didnʻt learn. You canʻt learn this stuff. Itʻs just how I am. Always have been."

"Iʻm not an idiot." He says vehemently. "But your friend should probably get far away from here. So should you. Whoever is doing this wonʻt stop here."

I donʻt know what craziness possesses me then. Something obviously did. Unless I always have this insanity inside me. "I can help. You can analyze places, occupations. I can analyze personality. Weʻd make a good team, Mr. Holmes. We could track them down. Together." I almost take back that statement. Is it really worth it? This was supposed to be a vacation, not a job opportunity.

Sherlock Holmes looks shocked. "Youʻre insane. This isnʻt a game, Christophson. You might die. Itʻs a horrid idea to have anything to do with me." Heʻs not lying. Heʻs dead serious, seeing as with no doubt, heʻs speaking from experience. But right now, I donʻt really care. I can feel my impulsive side coming bakc to me, ready to take control.  
"Oh, who the hell cares?"


	3. Chapter 3

When Chrystal wakes up (finally), I take her dazed self back to her flat. I unlock the door, walk inside, almost surprised at how much everything looks the same, even after all this drama. Still cozy, still sweet. She collapses onto her white leather couch, still a bit in shock.

"Omigod. Things like this donʻt happen to me. Do they happen to you?" She asks, switching on the TV.

I sigh. "Hon, youʻre talking to the girl who ran away from boarding school, bought an old Volvo, and spent her eighteenth year driving from one town to the next. But yeah, as far as that goes, this might be one of the weirdest things that has happened to me..." Iʻll admit that. I remember those days... going wherever there was work, eating from roadside food shacks. Sleeping at Holliday Inn each night. Until I finally found where I wanted to live: Pennsylvania.

"What happened while I was out?" Chrystal asks.

I was dreading this. Sheʻs used to my sudden decisions, but... this? Sheʻll probably be surprised at this. "Well, I punched your neighbor in the face, then formed a temporary business partnership with him."

Shaking her head, she says, "Why should I be surprised? Anyway, whatʻs your business partnership?"

"Tracking down whoever almost killed us."

"Um, that seems dangerous..."

"I love danger." Itʻs true. I was always the first one to volunteer for something, the one most likely to jump off a bridge for fun. The kid who always loved the most insane rollercoasters. Basically, I like almost dying.

"True, true. When do you start?"

"Tommorow morning. At the cafe next door."

I get a good nightʻs sleep, waking at precisely seven in the morning. I go about my morning routine, trying to forget Iʻm about to begin my strangest job yet. And trust me when I say Iʻve done some pretty weird stuff, particularly working as a cashier at a pet store, a waitress at a Meditteranean place, and, most weird of all, working at a daycare (a nightmare). I struggle in vain to at least partially tame my blonde hair, eventually throwing my hairbrush across the room in despair. It lands with a loud crash. Chrystal immediately rushes in.

"What the heck is going on?" she asks in alarm.

I laugh. "Relax, I just got angry at my stupid hairbrush."

She shakes her head. "That is not normal behavior!"

"For me it is." She shakes her head again, laughs, then leaves. I stare into the mirror. Minus the hair, I look presentable- black peacoat, lacy jacket, corset top, and stiff dress pants. Pretty much my typical look.

As I rush out the door, I almost run in Chrystal. She steps out of the way quickly, saying, "I thought we could hang out, go see the sights, but... guess that wonʻt work." She looks slightly disappointed, making me feel guilty. I did come here to visit her, not to work. Yet I guess having a bomb explode in your best friendʻs flat can change things a bit.

I put my hands on her shoulders in comfort. "Hey. We still can. Iʻll be back by lunch. Weʻll have plenty of time." I smile at her, which she hesitantly returns. I slip on my combat boots, opening the door only to see rain pouring down. I count to three, then force myself to sprint through the downpour to the cafe, slipping inside. The door slams loudly, due to the wind, causing every customer to turn around to stare at me, then rain-drenched twenty-something who looks half like she belongs in the 19th Century. Sherlock is already sitting there, sitting at a small table in the back. I walk through the crowd of people, smiling awkwardly.

As I approach, he says, "Finally, Miss Christophson."

Taking a seat across from him, I respond, cringing, "Please. Just call me Charlotte." I donʻt know, but Miss Christophson always sounded like the name some glamorous movie starlet would have. Which, quite obviously, Iʻm not, awesome as I am.

"What would you like?" A blond waitress asks. Shy, clumsy, single, a suck-up, crush on the cashier, born in the U.S.

"Iʻll take English Breakfast, no sugar." Sherlock responds gruffly.

"Chamomile, with cream," I say. The waitress writes that down, squinting at me, then scampers away.

"Nobody has cream in herbal tea." Sherlock tells me.

"Correction: normal people donʻt. I, on the other hand, do what I want." I fire back. I can see Sherlock holding back a smirk, looking at me.

"You like me! Omigod, the sociopath who thinks everyone beneath him, oh yeah, forgot that part, actually likes me... I mean, not like romantically, that would be weird, just like respect and friendship. I mean, do you even have friends? Oh, sorry, that sounded really rude. Which I am. I always have... And Iʻm shutting up now."

"Thatʻs why thereʻs more than one sociopath in this room, Christophson. Weʻre good at figuring out everyone.. except ourselves." For a moment, he looks surprisingly melancholy, then sits up, back to his normal self. "I make it up by being brilliant."

Rolling my eyes, I prepare for a sassy response, but he interrupts me by saying, "Enough. Letʻs see just how good you are. Tell me about that cashier."

I stare intensely at the man at the register, a mousy guy around twenty years old. "Thinks himself quite a catch, for some reason, note the confident smile at that girl. Means heʻs also confident, possibly arrogant. Bit of a bully. Slept late, judging by his half-combed hair, so must have been up late. Why? Letʻs see, something in his jeans pocket." I scramble to my feet, walking casually closer to get a better look. Once I do, I turn around and saunter back to my seat. "Page from a cookbook. Doesnʻt want his current girlfriend to know he loves to bake. Trying to get into cooking school, evident by the pamphlet behind him, but studies at night. His image is important, obviously. Seems aloof, but actually a good, sweet person, notice the charity buttons on his backpack. Which brings me to the fact that heʻs sentimental. A tru-"

Sherlock stands up abruptly. "Youʻre not an ordinary person, Charlotte Christophson. Youʻre the type that usually ends up as my enemy. Not my ally. What the hell is wrong with you?"

I shake my head. Probably a lot of stuff. Iʻve been diagnosed with no mental problems, but that probably just means my condition has not been discovered yet. "Iʻve been asking myself that for twenty-eight years. But please, can we start figuring out who the hell is behind this stuff?"

"Fair enough, letʻs start by finding this bomb."

When we return to the flat, using the key Chrystal gave to me, the girl is nowhere to be found. I find a note scrawled in familiarly messy handwriting and adorned with a familiar happy face. "Ran some errands. Back by lunch J -CL". We have the place to ourselves, which could be good. Chrystal has a habit of asking tons of questions about everything. I turn to see Sherlock already searching high and low for the bomb. It could be anywhere, but its best to start with the obvious places. I join him, moving knick-knacks, furniture aside. After all, this thing could have been placed long ago, days, weeks before. I plant to check in each room, but before Iʻve even finished half of Chrystalʻs messy kitchen, Sherlock speaks up.

"Thereʻs high traces of the gas in this room," he says, from the coatroom. Itʻs near the street, so perhaps somebody could have placed the bomb without even going inside. I rush over there, looking for a logical, or perhaps illogical place. Seconds later, my question is answered by a small window. Itʻs firmly closed, but Sherlock quickly locates specks of rain below it. I fall my knees, searching the ground, but come up blank.

"Wait. Whover did this is smart; these kind of people usually are. They know what people expect. Logically, the culprit would drop the bomb on the floor. Just easier, especially if you canʻt climb in through the window. But logic is pretty much useless when youʻre unusually intelligent. The culprit didnʻt expect intelligence, so they did the illogical thing." Standing on my tiptoes, I reach for my target: a tiny, camouflaged capsule on the ceilling. Sherlock, whose probably a full three inches taller than me, grabs it effortlessly, holding some gadget to it.

After a moment, he nods in approval. "Not bad. Whoever did this had to have long arms to reach the ceiling from the window, so tall..." I throw open the window, glancing outside.

"...or wearing heels," I declare, pointing to the prints only partially obscured by rain. The shoes are small, so the culprit is petite. "Also, the depth of th-"

Sherlockʻs phone rings, one of Beethovenʻs symphonies blaring. After half a minute of muttering, he hangs up. "Jawnʻs got a case for me. Will I see you tommorow, Christophson?"

"Yes, and for the last time, I donʻt appreciate being called that!" Unfortunately, heʻs already gone. Sherlock Holmes is right: Iʻm most likely the second biggest sociopath in the world, to be actually involved in all this insanity.


End file.
